Disclaimer: I don't own the show or the boys, but I do own my thoughts about them.
Author's Notes/Warning: So sorry it took so long to post. Should have done this 8 hours ago, but it was one of those crazy busy days at work then more as soon as I came home. We're back to John now, moving on in the story.
John's POV - Chapter 2
John woke up first. He listened for sounds of his lumbering son, but there was only silence. He remembered that Dean had staggered in somewhat late in the day yesterday afternoon. John blew a hard breath, thinking he needed to see if he had the makings of his Winchester Hangover Cure. He was back now; ready to work and he needed Dean alert.
John headed to the kitchen, stopping to put a hand on Dean's door as if that would somehow tell him the temperature of his son's mood. He decided against opening the door in case he didn't like what he would see. He also wanted to give Dean adequate time to revive on his own. He'd need his strength for later. John would see to that.
A couple of ingredients for the cure were around, like tomato juice and lime, which were great with some drinks he liked to mix. But the sugar and cayenne pepper weren't exactly staples in their temporary homes, so John would have to go out. He debated the wisdom of that seeing as how Dean didn't fare well the first time on his own. He'd have to trust the boy could be alone – and asleep – for the time it took him to run to the store and back.
When John returned, the house was just as he left it. "Yeah, time's up," he said aloud, heading to the kitchen to rest his grocery bag on the table. He had gotten the missing ingredients and, though he didn't deserve it, Dean's precious pie. He headed to the room to rouse his son. The door was still shut, but this time John opened it and strode in like it was his own. The musk of the room hit him in the face.
"Damn, boy. Open a window," he said to the unconscious kid. Stepping in, he went to the window to open it and found it unlocked. "Damn it, Dean. Don't make it so easy."
He pushed the window up, and turned to his son, whose lithe form was on top of the covers, stripped down to his boxers as he lay on his stomach, one arm under his head, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. John was tempted to pull off his belt and strap him right then and there as a wake-up call as Dean's offenses began to pile up. But he chose to slap him once on the ass instead.
"Rise and shine, kiddo," he said, leaning over clothes that were blocking the side of the bed. "Wake up, Dean!"
Dean's hand immediately went under his pillow and flew back out armed with a blade. He flipped over to see what had awakened him, squinting in the morning light. "Dad?" He shaded his eyes with his arm. "What…What's going on?" he yawned.
"Get. Up. We have work to do, but you need to get your head on straight first."
Dean rose slowly as John stepped back to lean against the doorjamb and wait. He pushed his legs to the floor. John took a slow breath in and a loud one out. Leaning on his legs, head briefly in hands, Dean turned his head to look at his dad. John saw no fight in him and backed down for the moment. "Get it together. I'll have something in the kitchen waiting for you." Dean quietly nodded and John reluctantly accepted the non-reply.
Returning to the kitchen, John dug into the shopping bag for the ingredients he bought to complete his hangover cure. It took no time to mix everything together into the eye-opening, sinus-clearing concoction that would help his wayward son get back on track and get his head back in the game. As he poured it into a glass, Dean stepped into the room, arms wrapped around himself, barefoot, jeanclad, but shirtless.
"You need a sick day, playboy?"
"No, sir. I'll be alright." Dean nodded toward the glass in John's hand. "That for me?"
"Yup. Good for what ails ya." John smirked and held out the glass.
Dean stepped over, eyes darting from his dad to the glass and back as if he wasn't sure it was safe to take it.
John chuckled. "Don't worry. I didn't poison it."
" 'S not what I'm worried about," Dean mumbled, eyeing the contents of the glass before cautiously bringing it to his lips. This wasn't his first Winchester Hangover Cure. He just never relished the taste.
"Yeah? What are you worried about then?" John leaned back in curiosity, crossing his arms and legs.
Dean grimaced as he tasted the bitter yet sour drink. "I know you're mad."
John remained silent.
"You're mad, right?"
"About what exactly?"
Dean snorted. "About what? About all this," he exclaimed, waving his hand about the room, sloshing the drink as he went. "The mess in the kitchen, which, uh, you cleaned — Thank you, by the way." He flashed a shy smile and went on. "The mess in the living room — that sofa really shouldn't be in front of that window — weapons everywhere. You told me to clean them, Dad, and I was doing it. I really was, I just…"
"You just what?"
Dean looked back at John, wide-eyed like he might crack. Like he just might tell him what was on his mind, and John watched him expectantly. But Dean pulled in his flailing arms instead, leaning on the wall while taking another sip.
"You told me to start the research," he quietly continued into the drink. "And I did, Dad. Did you see?" He looked up hopefully.
"I noticed something. I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. Got a little busy cleaning up your mess, taking care of you," he said, pointing a finger of accusation, as he stood tall again.
Dean visibly shrank back at the gesture and wrapped an arm around himself again, stirring the drink in the glass with a gentle shake. "I know. I'm sorry," Dean admitted. John closed his eyes and bowed his head, considering his next move. They needed to get a move on. This needed to be done.
"Look," he decided, rubbing the back of his neck. "Finish that drink. Get dressed. Clean this mess. I'll move the weapons to the back room. We've got space. No need to leave all of this sitting out. When we're done, we'll go grab something to eat and you can tell me what you've found so far. Fair?"
"More than fair, Dad," Dean nodded in acknowledgement, moving off the wall to square off with John. "I'll be quick." He downed the rest of the drink, putting the glass in John's outstretched hand. He smiled that 4-year-old shy smile of appreciation. "Thanks, Dad."
Turning to leave, he noticed the bag on the table, which was now pressed down around the sole item left in the bag – the pie. "That for me too?"
John rolled his eyes at Dean's unnecessary question.
Dean gave him a much more confident smile. "Thanks, Dad."
"Umm hmm. Get moving."
They made quick work of the cleanup and were headed out in no time.
"Did you bring the notes?" John asked as he rounded the car.
"Yes, sir. Got 'em right here. I actually found out quite a bit while I was, um…."
"Out?"
"Yeah, uh, out."
"Umm hmm. You can tell me all about it over something greasy and fattening."
"Ugh, Dad, please," Dean groaned, holding his stomach as he climbed into the car.
"Too soon?"
"Just a little. But don't worry. I'll be in prime eating shape by the time we get to…where are we going, Dad?"
"Oh, coming back, I saw there's a diner not too far from here? Quick Time, I think it's called?"
Dean blushed and sank into his seat, but John was too busy backing out of the drive to notice.
Stepping into the diner, Dean nervously glanced around, taking in all the occupants.
"Just sit anywhere, " the waitress behind the counter said as she looked up. A knowing smile crossed her face. "You know the drill," she grinned, nodding at the men.
"Uh, yeah," Dean said. "Like most diners. Sit where you want. Come on, Dad." Dean tugged at John's sleeve and moved briskly to the section as far back as they could go. John watched him quizzically, but followed.
"Can't be too careful," Dean said with a dismissive shrug.
"Yeah," John said slowly. "You're right."
"So," Dean continued. "You wanna hear what I learned?"
"Yeah, yeah, son. I do," John replied, wondering about his son's sudden agitation. "Let's just, uh, take a second to order, shall we?"
"Oh sure," Dean nodded, snatching the closest menu and burying his head. "Mmm," he peeped over the menu at his father. "Looks good!" Dean quickly returned to the menu and John shook his head, taking the other that was in the holder.
Opening the menu, John began to study it. It was the usual fare for these types of establishments. John didn't really need to figure anything out, but he glossed over the words to avoid uncomfortable eye contact as he spoke. "So, how ya doing, son?"
Dean looked up quickly and back down again; studying his own menu just as intently.
"What do you mean? I'm fine."
John nodded and looked over to see if the waitress was coming. "Are you?" He raised a finger in the waitress' direction, keeping his eye on her instead o Dean. She smiled, raising a coffee pot in acknowledgement.
"Am I what?" Dean asked.
"Fine? Are you fine?" John asked, looking back to his son.
Dean lowered the menu, giving his dad his full-watt smile. "As wine, Dad."
"Umm hmm." John wondered why his sons continued to treat him like he didn't know them; like he couldn't understand. Possibly because John did not always take the time to convey just how much he paid attention to their actions and their lives. But clearly Dean didn't want to talk right now so John did not pursue it.
"Well, I was thinking, after we get the research done for this hunt, maybe we'll head on over to Stanford, huh? Just to check, you know?" John would never admit his own fear for Sam, but he didn't mind Dean knowing, under the guise of being cautious. "Can't be too sure nothing's set its sites on Sammy."
The waitress arrived before Dean could reply. Sidling up to the table, she flashed another smile of familiarity.
"How y'all doing this morning?" she asked, looking at Dean with a wink.
"We're fine," John replied, moving his coffee cup closer to her waiting hand.
"Yeah?" she smirked, glancing back at Dean.
"Uh, yeah," Dean blushed, ducking back into his menu. "Can I just get some scrambled eggs with toast?"
"You sure?" the waitress replied, pen poised to write more. "That's all?'
"Yeah," Dean answered, scratching his head. "I'm…I'm good." He smiled a polite smile then turned to look out the window as he scratched his ear.
John noticed the exchange and looked from Dean to the waitress. He knew Dean's type. This wasn't it, though he never shied away from any female attention. So what was the deal?
"What'll it be for you, sweetheart?"
"Eggs, sunny side up. Hash, sausage and keep the caffeine coming please."
"You got it, hon." The waitress gave Dean one more smirk before she left the table. Dean cleared his throat and threw her another polite smile before looking back at his hands on the tabletop.
John rubbed his stubbly chin. "Something you wanna tell me, son?"
"No, no Dad. Nothing." Dean began to fidget with the silverware.
"Uh huh. About the hunt maybe?"
Dean smacked the table with the utensils as he brightened. "Yes," he said quickly. "The hunt. Good. Good call." He pulled out the notebook. John sat back, smiling at his mysterious son.
"So there are six deaths that I know of so far. They all died in homes they did not live in. Apparently one of the people was a house sitter."
"That right?" John leaned forward in interest.
"Yeah. The couple wanted to go away, but they needed someone to watch the place because they were going to be gone for a while. They figured a service would be safe, you know? Licensed and insured and all that? The victim was from the service."
"And how did you find that out?" John asked, sipping his coffee.
Dean blushed again, smoothing his notes. "Um, I talked to one of the, uh, residents? And they knew one of the couples."
John raised an eyebrow. "That's fortuitous."
"Yeah," Dean chuckled anxiously. "She said they are friends of hers and they told her they found the victim with some kind of weird makeup on her face. She said it reminded them of clown makeup."
John sat back at the odd revelation. "That right?"
"That's what she said. So, I figured we check to see if all the victims were house sitters. Since these weren't their homes, it stands to reason, right?"
John nodded.
"We'll see if they are," Dean continued, "and if so, we'll find out which companies. Maybe it's the same one."
"Yeah, son. That's good." John sipped his coffee again while Dean sat back with a pleased look on his face. John smiled. Dean may be 24, but he still needed his dad's approval. "That's good work, son. Considering…"
"Considering?"
"Well, when exactly did you do all this investigating? You stumbled in this morning from I presume the night before? You'd only been here the one day before that. So when'd you have time to find all this out?"
Dean snorted incredulously. "Dad, come on. You can find out so much online. And yeah, I went out, but I am a people person, you know. They just want to talk to me!"
"She does."
Dean furrowed his brows. "She who?"
"You said one of the residents – she? – was friends with the couple who had this happen in their home?"
"Oh! Yeah, yeah, Dad." Dean looked away. "Um, waitress! Can I get a Coke over here?" Dean laughed another nervous laugh. "Ugh, my stomach," he feigned. John gave his third quizzical look of the day.
"Um, so yeah. Residents are females too." Dean scratched his head again trying to end his dad's queries.
"And a straw too please," he called back to the waitress.
"Uh huh." John was pretty sure there was more to the story.